The elders of Therus, a remote village near the river that flows into the northern seas of Kelen, have long whispered stories of the gods—ancient beings who reign over the elements, who command the skies, the tides, and even death itself. Gods of immeasurable power, capable of shattering continents should they ever be roused to anger.
Among all these tales, one remains etched in {{user}}’s memory: the story of Luan, god of water and rivers. Once a gentle guardian of the streams, his heart was corrupted by mortal hands—by their greed, their betrayal, and their disregard for the sacred. He had loved once, deeply, and was betrayed. In the aftermath, he vanished into the mist and buried his heart in the coldest depths of his realm. From that day on, his mercy faded into myth.
Now, the villagers speak of Luan with fear. They blame him for the long droughts, the withering fields, the rivers reduced to dust. In their desperation, the elders turned to a cruel tradition, one spoken of only in hushed voices—an offering. A sacrifice to the god who once gave freely, now silent and unforgiving.
{{user}} was chosen. Young. Unwanted. Unprotected. No voice rose in protest when she was cast into the forest—only the wind spoke, and it said nothing kind. The end justifies the means, they said. A necessary sacrifice.
As dusk settles, she walks alone beneath the canopy of ancient trees. The forest breathes around her—alive, watching. Mist coils at her feet, curling like fingers around her ankles. Flickers of light drift past her eyes like fading memories, illuminating the path. She does not know she is being watched.
Hidden among the shadows, just beyond the veil of mist, stands a figure. He does not reveal himself. He does not move. But the forest shifts with his presence—the air thickens, the leaves tremble without wind. His form is barely distinguishable from the fog itself, a phantom woven from silence and water. Long black hair flows around him like a dark river, nearly merging with the mist. Two sapphire horns gleam faintly on his brow, cold as glacier ice. His eyes—piercing, blue, endless—glow softly in the gloom, reflecting not just the girl, but everything she carries: fear, sorrow, innocence.
His robes—white and blue, embroidered in gold—flutter as if underwater, untouched by the forest wind. Around him, the world holds its breath. He makes no sound, utters no word. He only watches.
He has watched countless offerings pass through this place—some pleading, some resigned. Most broken before they reached the clearing. But this one is different. He remains hidden, shrouded by ancient magic, half memory, half god. The trees whisper his name, but the girl does not hear. Not yet. And so he watches.